


The Horror of Our Love

by Bloodwolf



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Almost-Necrophilia, Blood, Fluff, Gamzee's a zombie, Honest, M/M, Mild Gore, Tav is like a golem or something, dead boys fricking, despite the tags it's not bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodwolf/pseuds/Bloodwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ancient language </i>
  <br/><i>Speak through fingers</i>
  <br/><i>The awful edges where you end and I begin</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>Inside your mouth </i><br/><i>I cannot see</i><br/><i>There’s catastrophe</i><br/><i>In everything I’m touching</i><br/><i>As I sweat and crush you</i></p>
<p>-Ludo “The Horror of Our Love"<br/>-----</p>
<p>Even the dead can love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Horror of Our Love

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in one day. Huh.
> 
> This was posted a while ago on my Tumblr, but I got too lazy to post it elsewhere.

Gamzee’s rotting, fleshy arms cage you like a bird, protective and possessive, his abnormal indigo eyes piercing through your soul like an arrow to the heart. His lips quirk into a grin that’s neither sane nor demented, and it makes you’re dead heart stir like the living. He leans close, nipping the scarred flesh between yellowing, chipped teeth and you bite your lip, careful not to chew through the soft flesh. He may still want those lips later. 

His teeth dig into the crook, pulling at the tattered flesh, and you let a gurgling whine escape your throat, coupled with a wavering grin of your own. He releases the mangled skin with a pop, licking a slimy stripe over it. One of your hands tangled itself in the dead man’s greasy hair, careful not to pull too roughly, as he trails his tongue down your entire neck. Gamzee’s own hands find themselves in your small stripe of hair, also taking care not to pull hard, his free hand found yours and locks the fingers, a sickening pale green contrasting with stitched off-white.

The undead licks your cheek before pulling you to a kiss, taking no time to thrust his slimy tongue in your mouth. You take it with a moan, your tongue dancing with his. It surprises you that he doesn’t taste like death and rot, even if your sense of taste has deadened. Instead, he holds the taste of dirt and dust. He growls in your mouth as you suckle on his tongue, taking in more of the earthy residue. You take the growl as a good sign; it means he can feel what you’re doing to him, as well as what he’s doing to you. It’s a miracle that even you could feel all this.

That miracle just so happens to be Gamzee.

He pulls away too soon, letting a thin string of saliva fill the space between you. When the string thins out and breaks, he leans back, hands falling from your hair and gently, with small butterfly touches and the smooth pads of his fingers, caresses your face, neck, body, mapping out every stitch, deformity and flaw on your imperfect body. You do the same from him, releasing his hair and touch the fragile flesh of the undead on top, his face, his neck, his body, from the decayed gaps in his shoulder, to the bold autopsy scar across his chest. You think Gamzee was handsome in his previous life, high cheek bones, bold chin, and vibrant eyes, but death and decay stole the beauty and left a fragment of the man before you. It didn’t matter though, you think as your hand cups his waist, thumbs drawing circles in the weak skin. It really doesn’t, as you tightly squeeze his bony hand.

Gamzee gives off a smile that melts you as he grinds his hips against yours slowly, gently, as if you’re made of glass. With the hand pressed to his hip, you guide his movements, slipping your fingers past the waist band of his ratty pants. He tenses before shuddering on you, like porcelain breaking all around. He has little care in the world as he carelessly rips his own pants into shreds and hastily removes them. 

He’s flaccid; no moving blood, no erection. But that doesn’t matter. It’s not even a problem as you tug at the limp muscle, feeling him shake and groan. He can still feel it. He drags his hips forward, reaching back with his thin hand to unzip you. You nearly bite through your tongue as he strokes you, coaxing you to full hardness. You return his movements by pulling on his lifeless member.

“Taav…” His tone is scratchy and rough, clearly not used to speaking beyond death. The hand still grasping yours tightens, almost enough to dislodge his entire hand from the bone. He arches away from you, his backside pressing against your groin hard your erection sliding through the crack. You moan at the feeling. Gamzee groans as you catch the sensitive skin around his entrance, lucky enough not to rip the skin. When the teasing turns into something needy and desperate, the undead above you grasps your member by the hilt, aligning you to his entrance and pushes slowly. 

The best thing about being dead, you think, is the lack of prep work.

He slides the hardened flesh in deeper while he lowers himself down steadily, careful not to rip anything inside him. Your hand moved from his hip to his shoulder, lightly scratching the surface as he starts to bounce. Gamzee’s clutching all around you, creating a delicious friction that has you bucking your hip back as he reaches base. Your light scratches dig harder as the pace quickens, ribbons of flesh tearing under your nails like paper. He growls and moans with his slimy tongue lolled out his mouth with a sinful grin, and you mewl and groan, with perhaps the very same expression plastered. His hips roll, grind and buck, while you try to do the same, making love only the dead would know how. 

The dead man rises his hips to the tip before slamming down on you for one final time, back arching so far you hear crude bones pop in protest and his mouth hangs open in a glorious cry, starting with your name, but ending with a incoherent mess of moans and growls. It’s dry, but it’s nothing surprising as you buck against him one last time, crying out his name in pure unadulterated ecstasy. 

He slumps against you, not in exhaustion, but to reclaim your neck, biting at the soft flesh until the stitches that hold you together bead crimson, and licks the liquid life up like a parched mans oasis. He licks his way to your lips one last time, tasting the coppery tinge of your blood and you can already tell that he‘s ready to start again.

You realize after round two that his hand is still gripped to yours like an anchor, and he makes no attempt to let you go.


End file.
